


For my twin

by Allegory



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Assassin's Creed Syndicate, Drama, Hurt, Sibling Love, Violence, sick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory/pseuds/Allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evie has always fixed Jacob's mistakes but this one she will have to rest in his hands.</p><p>(Evie is poisoned and hurt on a mission and Jacob goes to great lengths to find a cure)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking with me thus far. Next release indefinite but likely to be done before next week. Happy new year everyone! :)

Evie was born 4 minutes before Jacob and at no large expense did she remind him of it. Twins or not, Evie had that head start and Jacob could not argue against it. Perhaps Jacob could retaliate if their personalities were swapped- but of course, he just had to be the rowdy, foolish younger brother while Evie the intelligent thinker who’s always had the last laugh. All he had to do was trust in her judgement.

"I'll be alright, Jacob," her cracked, worn voice betrayed her words. When she smiled, a lop-sided, broken smile, he felt the sight of it tear at his heart.

Henry was standing on the opposite side of the cot. He looked at Jacob, hoping he would meet his gaze, but Jacob was perpetually transfixed on his sister. Stripped of her hood and thick leather jackets, Evie appeared so bare and weak. No hidden blades, no throwing knives-just an inner vest, thin pants and a sickeningly pale complexion. Blue and grey bruises adorned her body, molding her into the dimness of the train.

Evie shivered, swallowing a wracking cough that did no justice to Jacob’s concerns. He clinched her hand tighter in his, knowing the worst had yet to come. 4 minutes. If he had had those 4 minutes in the warehouse, he could have stopped her. Would have, even if the seas were to dry and the sun shriveled into a raisin. Anything to deny her of this fate.

_“Ms. Frye, you underestimate me.”_

Jacob recalled the man’s dark brown eyes, so dull and unintimidating, reflecting off the searing light with bright red flecks. He had not even been able to warn Evie when the cold steel doors slammed down in front of him. Malicious barks and howls ensued, a cacophony of triumph that only rose in volume and enthusiasm when Evie shrieked. A high-pitched, agonizing noise that Evie would _never_ make.

And all Jacob had done was slam against the steel, heart thumping in his chest. If he had seen the bomb _,_ that goddamned flash of light would have never happened. Whatever they injected Evie with would not have found its way in her system. She would not be lying her, a battered body with a gaping hole on the nape of her neck.

"She needs to go now," said Henry. Jacob did not look at him. He did not even hear him.

It took all of Jacob's strength to not apologize to his sister. Evie did not like apologies. To her they were obsolete and would do nothing except invoke sorrow. Jacob knew it was true but he had dug himself deep enough to resort to useless self-pity. He could think of nothing else- encouraging words were lies and she was lying enough for the both of them. Their linked hands trembled but Jacob could not tell if it was he or his sister shaking.

"Jacob," Henry tried again, putting his hand on his shoulder. Jacob flinched and suddenly the blade of his arm sheath was upon Henry's neck. A thick silence ensued. Henry, feeling the metal bite on his skin, had stopped breathing. Oh yes, Jacob was definitely the one shaking.

"Sorry. Sorry." Jacob uttered, withdrawing the blade and forcing his shoulders down.

He returned his attention to Evie, who could not really see anything beyond a mosaic of colors. His action had register in her mind but she did not have the energy to chide. The taste of rusted iron and sour vomit crouched at the back of her throat, an assault to all her senses. It took every clenching muscle not to barf out her innards—at least not until Jacob couldn't see her.

"I-I promise, Evie, I'll find a cure. I will," he stroked her icy hand with his thumb. He didn't need to say it but after what happened with their father, he could not just keep quiet. It would make him think of Evie leaving him alone, a single Frye twin condemned to the shadows. The notion made his eyes damp.

Jacob leaned down and brushed her maimed brown hair. Dry, course, like raking across sand of a midday desert. He hoped, if Evie had heard him sniff then, that she knew he was not only tearing up for her but for himself as well. Their old man's funeral had already left him in pieces. If not fight for herself, at least fight for her brother.

Jacob kissed the sweat on her forehead and released her hand. He nodded at Henry who, along with an accompanying rook, heaved the stretcher and stepped off the train. These were the early hours of slumbering Thames, its bridges only occupied by the loitering of drunkards and gamblers. The two headed towards a nearby dock, waving to a ship owner named MacAngelo. A grievous expression struck him when he saw Evie and he quickly ushered them on deck.

"Where to now, Mr. Frye?" asks a solemn voice next to him. Jacob gave Angus a sidelong glance.

"Be on guard. Rally the Rooks and make sure the train doesn't go under a siege. I will not be here to protect it."

With a flick of his wrist, Jacob has donned his hood and was walking down the other way, cobblestones clacking under his boots. The first spray of light rains pattered down at him, forming rivulets down and around his shoulders. _Mr. Jude,_ he mulled, a hand of ice clenching around his heart. Jacob flicked his blades in and out, the sharp scratch of metal inciting a rush of bloodlust in him.

He might have failed once, but perhaps it could work in his favor. Jacob would give the man a fate worse than death.


	2. Chapter 2

“Nathan,” Jacob called.

The brute shuffled forward. He normally bore a face of terror, his body the iceberg that plunged Titanic and the scar across his nose a testament of his hard-hitting scuffles. As Nathan stepped up to Jacob, he was at least two heads taller. But glancing at Jacob’s shadowed eyes, the promise of bloody death when it flicked up to him—Nathan had never felt so small in his life.

“You lead the fight. If you see anyone with the sigil of a wolf, kill them. Cut their fingers off or break their limbs first. Instruct the rest to do the same.”

Nathan attempted something of a nod. This was his boss. Top hat gone, a visage of murder.

“Do you hear me?” Jacob growled, the full brunt of his glare imposed upon him.

“Yes sir,” Nathan piped, returning to the Rooks with a chill at the base of his head. No one in the gathered crowd had missed the scene of their bulkiest, strongest fighter almost shitting his pants just listening to orders. They gulped, some breathing heavily, some blinking repeatedly, but no one shifted.

No one dared to. Jacob was their funny, looney boss who would go out drinking with them till they were sprawled on tables and stairways. He was the man who went around carelessly as if playing London on his fingertips, effortless and flighty.

But then again news travelled fast in Britain’s gang network, and most of them understood the warrant. They had heard of Ms. Frye’s circumstance and even all the Gods could not help them if she didn’t survive; Jacob had snapped at them enough for their hesitant movements and in his eyes, an indecent lack of urgency. Their lives might as well have been in as much jeopardy as the to-be fingerless wolf men.

“Get going!” Nathan bayed at the thought. He drew his sword with a shrill hiss, an echo of his motion following. The thong disappeared around the corner.

Jacob heaved his grappling hook and scaled the building, stifled anger in each forceful tug. Unlike most assassins, volatility made Jacob dangerous rather than blinded. His senses sharpened, the cloud of idle wit and pomp in his head clearing. Unsuppressed methods, a numbing of all sentimentality except savagery. Forget Jude’s fancy red lighting effects—his vicious green eyes could have anyone begging for mercy.

The mission commenced at the ring of the midnight bell. The clash of metal against metal, desperate roars and the stench of feces came alive with the release of death. Jacob watched for anyone rushing to the lean-to where the alarm bell resided. Each of them were shot depending on the presence of the sigil, either a swift death through the brain or an agonizing one with bullets through their nether regions.

Their enemies quickly realized, in spite of their larger force, that ganging up against one stealthy Frye twin was very different from facing the full throttle of their gang. Jacob felt his breath quicken with every shot, his blood lusting to watch Mr. Jude claw out of the building, frightened to degenerate piss. He had plans for that man and his stupid light bombs.

Several minutes later, Jacob had just reloaded his revolver when the cloaked man dashed out of the building. Three bodyguards surrounded him, running systematically to the pace of their boss.

“Coward,” Jacob growled. He made clean shots on them all, carving neat holes through their heads. Each of them peeled around Jude like delicate flower petals. Without even using his zip line, Jacob jumped down the three story building, a jolt travelling up his legs. He didn’t feel it. Jude was too close and the only thing he could feel was a surge of ire.

It only burgeoned when Jacob saw the man standing stiff in place, not from fear but from some sort of stoic resolve. It irked Jacob that he was not running for his life or pleading or apologizing. Jude was calm. All the wrath Jacob had banked up for this moment, his breath locked in his lungs until they throbbed—he felt very real pain from not being able to release it.

Jacob walked up to the man and twisted his arms back with a loud crack. Jude gazed at him, his dull brown eyes glinting with… _amusement?_ Jacob gritted his teeth, shoving the man outside the vicinity and into a waiting carriage. He snapped at the Rooks to guard him with their lives and, before he accidentally killed one of his own men, went back in to snap some bones.

~

The night’s massacre took headlines in all of Britain’s papers. The vivid detail of their raw ferocity was a blow to the good name of the Rooks—and citizens had begun to steer clear of anyone in green—but on the up side, the Blighters were showing reluctance to pick fights. The paper arrived to Henry’s hands in the morning and he was almost glad Evie was in her feverish state. It would do no good if she knew of the event.

As for Jacob, he had not even seen the news. He sat now in the home of a Rook, fingers intertwined and elbows set on his lap. The cutting of the wolf fingers had eased his adrenaline. Initially their pleas and yells had provided great bouts of relief, but over time his morality returned and made him sick to the stomach. Jacob had left the building and vomited twice after his third victim, unable to eat or rest since then. He had went, knowingly, against everything their father taught.

 _For Evie_ had been his excuse. But even Jacob, as proud as he was, eventually admitted that it had been a selfish act, one he had committed to soothe his helplessness when Evie was beaten and poisoned. No one deserved to die from such pain, not even for what they did to his sister. He would bear the sin forever.

Mr. Jude sat on the opposite side of the room, his hands bound to the chair. Jacob stared at him, reading for a single flicker of fear or discomfort. Nothing. Hours had already passed and yet he could find no sign of emotion—not that it would matter anymore. Jacob had already worn himself out, his blades and hands stained by the blood and bone fragments of those poor victims. By acting as scapegoats, Mr. Jude’s men had saved him from Jacob’s ire. Whether they wanted to or not.

“I’ll ask you again,” Jacob sighed, a warning edge to his voice. “Where is the cure?”

Jude did not react. Jacob’s patience was beyond worn—every second, he could see Evie in his mind’s eye, shadowed by the sights and sounds his father’s death had brought. The pain in his chest, a bodily reaction he’s always had in times of great stress, flared like a spread of disease.

There was a light tap on the door, the alert Jacob had been waiting for. He stood up, his body heavy and sluggish, and strode towards the tied man. In the dark room, beams of hot white light penetrated the apertures in the wooden planks. The absence of windows caused lights to dazzle through the walls like stars, dappling against the planes of his exhausted face. Jacob leaned forward and thumbed the man on his forehead.

“Listen here, Mr. Jude. Since you clearly do not care for your own life, I will offer a new proposition.” After all he’d done, Jacob truly hadn’t wished to resort to this. “Bring them in.”

The response was immediate. The door to the cleared store room clicked open and two teenagers, a girl and a boy, were ushered in with their wrists bound and taut white cloths wrapped around their mouths. For once in the largely passive interrogation, Jude made a sound—a quiet gasp, but a sound nonetheless.

“Mr. Frye, please—“ Jude began, all conceit and secrecy dissipating at the sight of his dear children, the only two people who mattered in a life full of firearms and blood.

“Where is the cure?” Jacob cut him off. For all that strong will, Jude had become pathetically pliable with the potential threat to his children. His interrogator, drained of reiterating the same questions, walked over to the paralyzed children and drew out his revolver. Subdued and fearful muffles escaped their throats, enough to have Jude writhe on the stool.

“Mr. Starrick has an associate—Greenfield, who made the light stuns and the poisons. He—“

“Bullshit,” Jacob snapped. “The Rooks have searched him. You were the one who invented the poison, Mr. Jude, now I suggest you tell the truth otherwise—“

Jacob cocked the gun over one of the teen’s heads. Jude pulled his stool off the ground, face pale and sick with horror.

“Alright, please, it doesn’t exist!”

“It what?!”

“The poison is extracted from a genetically modified cobra called Syntox—from our Templar brothers in South Africa. It is lethal and will shut down a person’s immune system within a week. And so far, we do not know of a cure.”

Jacob felt his the exhaustion in his body expand at his words—a sensation that played tricks on his limbs, spasms in one leg and wobbling in another. His fingers twitched on the trigger, thankfully too weak to fire another sinful bullet. He lowered the weapon, resisting an urge to clutch and slam his chest where the phantom burn was becoming too much to bear.

It made sense. Starrick was not a fool—he must’ve known, be it through his confederates or simple intuition—that while Jacob owned the Rooks, Evie owned his spirit. It was a two way thing: with either twin crippled, the other would fall. Much like dumping two corpses overboard, their hands linked and one of them chained to an anchor.

Jacob would drown with her. The Rooks, threatening Sterrick’s reign over Britain, would be stripped powerless. All he had done thus far would be futile.

Jacob wished, maybe not for the first time in his life, to shoot himself squarely in the head.


End file.
